“It’s a wonderful thing to me——­” began Monsignor, but a sharp pressure on his arm checked him—­“how you keep the whole organization going,” he ended lamely.

The captain smiled.

“It’s pretty straightforward,” he said.  “The Michael line runs the first week of every month; the Gabriel the second, and so on.”

“Then——­”

“Yes,” put in Father Jervis.  “Whose idea was it to dedicate the lines to the archangels?  I forget.”

“Ah! that’s ancient history to me, father. . . .  Excuse me, Monsignor; I think I hear my bell.” he wheeled, saluting again, and was off.

“Do you mean—–?” began Monsignor.

“Of course,” said Father Jervis, “everything runs on those lines now.  You see we’re matter-of-fact, and it’s really rather obvious, when you think of it, to dedicate the volor lines to the angels.  We’ve been becoming more and more obvious for the last fifty years. . . .  By the way, Monsignor, you must take care not to give yourself away.  You’d better not ask many questions except of me.”

Monsignor changed the subject.

“When shall we get to Paris?” he asked.

“We shall be a little late, I think, unless they make up time.  We’re due at three.  I hope there won’t be any delay at Brighton.  Sometimes on windy nights——­”

“I suppose the descending and the starting again takes some time.”

The priest laughed.

“We don’t descend at places en route,” he said.  “The tender comes up to us.  It’ll probably be in its place by now.  We aren’t ten minutes away.”

The other compressed his lips and was silent.

Presently, far away to the southward beneath the soft starlit sky, the luminous road down which they travelled seemed to expand once more almost abruptly into another vast spread of lights.  But as they approached this did not extend any farther, but lay cut off sharp by a long, curving line of almost complete darkness.

“Brighton . . . the sea . . .  And there’s the tender waiting.”

At first the prelate could not make it out against the radiance below, but an instant later, as they rushed on, it loomed up, sudden and enormous, itself blazing with lights against the dark sea.  It looked to him something like a floating stage, outlined with fire; and there were glimmering, perpendicular lines beneath it which he could not understand, running down to lose themselves in the misty glow three hundred feet beneath.

“How’s it done?” he asked.

“It’s a platform, charged of course with aeroline.  It runs on lines straight up from the stage beneath, and keeps itself steady with screws.  You’ll see it go down after we’ve left again.  Come to the stern, we shall see better from there.”

By the time that they had reached the other end of the ship, the pace had rapidly diminished almost to motionlessness; and as soon as Monsignor could attend again, he perceived that there was sliding at a footpace past their starboard side the edge of the huge platform that he had seen just now half a mile away.  For a moment or two it swayed up and down; there was a slight vibration; and then he heard voices and the trampling of footsteps.